Supernatural - Carver Edlund
by Warrior-Maid-of-the-Shadows
Summary: The Continuation of Carver Edlund's cult classic, compiled through the notes and manuscripts left behind after the author's disappearance. When victims in a small town are found with no visible causes of death and burnt eye sockets, Sam and Dean take a trip to South Dakota on a hunt for what seems to be a rogue angel. But they'll find more than just a wingless soldier of God.
1. Book 1: The Trouble With Angels

**Episode One**

**The Trouble With Angels**

* * *

**The Road So Far**

_ It's always difficult to begin a story. You may have the entire plot and every character planned out meticulously and things still tend to fly out the window when you actually sit down to write it. I've been writing for a very long time, though I didn't always know that what I wrote was actually true. But, funnily enough, I did that to myself a very long time ago._

_ I'm getting off topic, though. Many of you know who Sam and Dean Winchester are and just what they do. You've read the stories and know exactly what those two boys have been through. I know I haven't written about them in a long time now. But it's time to pick up the pen again. Because something big is about to happen, something I could never have planned._

_ Then again, much of what is happening now wasn't in the script. Ever since the events of _Swan Song_, there really haven't been any plans. They tore up the script and let the world spin on. But, of course, that left the door open for others to try to be me. Michael, Raphael, Metatron, they've all attempted to create their own story. I'm willing to let them try. After all, I've watched from the angels from afar as they tried to go on without me. Some of them made me proud. Others caused me to despair._

_ But, every now and then, a handful bring me hope again. Sam, Dean and Castiel still continue to do so. Once you're as old as I am, surprises such as the ones brought about by those three make you smile. Kate and Zack, of course, were a pleasant surprise. But you don't know them yet. If you did, this wouldn't be that much of a story, would it?_

_ But, for those of you who aren't entirely certain what has happened so far, let me give you a little reminder. Sam and Dean never finished the trials to lock Hell, Castiel was fooled by Metatron into helping him cast the angels from Heaven, Dean was tricked by Gadreel into letting him use Sam as a vessel to heal him, Castiel spent time as a human before stealing another angel's grace, Dean was given the Mark of Cain and found the First Blade to kill Abaddon, and Metatron believes he can rewrite the Earth so that he is ultimately the hero. Of course he doesn't realize that only _I_ am allowed to write the world's script._

_ You're probably confused by now as to my identity. But I assure you, you know me well. Most of you probably resent me for what I've done, or haven't done. Others may hate me for the pain and suffering I cause. Then there are the few who still believe in me, who seek me out for answers. But I swore long ago that I wouldn't interfere. There's a reason for that._

_ But enough about me. It's time you heard the story._

* * *

**Now**

A couple miles west of the Wind Cave National Park in South Dakota, there's a decent hiking trail through a little wooded area. People used to follow the trail a handful of years back. That was before the new management came in and disregarded the area. The path itself can now be found overgrown with weeds and hardly distinguishable from any other patch of grass that happens to be surrounding it.

That didn't stop a few brave souls from still going out there, chancing the poisonous snakes, spiders, and skunks that happened to call the place home. You'd be surprised at what doesn't deter people from going to poke around the area. Or maybe you wouldn't. At this point in the story, I'm sure you've already seen just how many people go to traipse around some abandoned factory or haunted house.

This is, unfortunately, where this story begins. Three hikers happened to be stomping through the woods, scaring any little animals that happened to be within a dozen feet of them. Now, I know you don't often learn anything about the poor souls spoken of within the first couple minutes of these stories, but they did have lives before their untimely demises.

The eldest, a girl by the name of Molly Anderson, had just recently from medical school and was planning to find a job as a psychiatrist. Her current boyfriend, Tate Callaghan, wanted to become a freelance photographer but instead worked at for a local newspaper for the income. They had invited their friend, Sarah Cooley, to go hiking with them as she had just come back from her volunteer work in Cambodia.

See there. Isn't it refreshing to actually know something about them instead of listening about random Jane or John Does? It's a real shame that they'll be dead by the end of this part of the story.

The ironic point of their story is that, had Tate brought a map like his girlfriend had suggested, they would not have been horribly lost as the sun slid below the horizon. They would have, in fact, found the hillside three hours earlier and enjoyed the view before returning home for a peaceful night in. That is, unfortunately, not what happened.

As it so happened, Tate had forgotten the map in his hurry to fill his backpack at the last minute. Which, in turn, left him and Molly arguing loudly a couple feet in front of Sarah. She shook her head at the two, listening as Molly once again called him out on being irresponsible and procrastinating at the worst times. Her eyes glanced down at the crumpled grass as she tried to block them out.

Her steady footsteps faltered as she noticed a patch of grass at the edge of the trail that was starkly different from the rest. The area was blackened and had sunk down slightly into the ground. Glancing up at her friends, she decided they couldn't possibly go that far and decided to take a closer look. After all, it's difficult to see in the dusk.

Stepping off the trail, Sarah followed the line of burnt grass beneath her feet. It seemed to stop at one of the trees and she looked up to see long claw marks along the bark. Now, let it be known that claw marks on a tree are hardly a rare sight in South Dakota. However, marks which were almost an inch in width and spanned three feet were not something to be scoffed at.

Sarah looked up at the soft _whoosh_ of wings, but saw nothing near her. That included her two companions on this little adventure. She made her way back to the trail and glanced around.

"Molly?" she called, hoping they were only a few feet out of her sight. "Tate?"

Instead of a reply, a scream ripped through the woods, causing the few birds hanging around in the trees to scatter. Now, most human instincts dictate that at the sign of danger, one is to run away from whatever impending peril is within the vicinity. But basic human instinct doesn't seem to apply to the poor saps at the beginnings of these stories. Almost makes you wonder what they're thinking, doesn't it?

So, instead of running away for help, as any sensible person would do, Sarah ran _towards_ the source of the scream. Running up the trail, stray branches and leaves tugged at her clothing as if telling her to go back. An upturned stone caught her shoe and she tumbled forward into the scorched grass. As she pushed herself off the ground, a startled cry left her lips when she saw what lay before her.

Molly lay face up on the burnt trail, her legs and arms splayed haphazardly around her. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, blood running down from three long slashes across her abdomen. But what stood out the most were her eyes. Nothing remained of them except smoldering sockets leading deep into her skull. Smoke still rose from the gaping holes, filling the area with the stench of burning flesh.

Sarah scrambled away from the corpse, frantically hoping Tate would still be alive and they would escape the nightmare they had stumbled into. But she was thrown across the glade by a great force and she cried out as her leg snapped. She stared down at the floor, afraid to look at the burning creature approaching her. Tears slid down her face as it stopped within five feet of her.

Her eyes rose from the floor and up to the creature before her. She gave an audible gasp as she saw it was a man in what looked like a leather jacket and mirror aviators. A sense of calm flooded her as she realized he could help her. Until he pulled off his sunglasses.

And another scream rang through the woods, unheard by anyone besides the man.


	2. Chapter 1: Different Light Every Night

The Bunker was nearly silent if you ignored the sporadic sound of pages turning. Sam and Dean sat on opposite ends of one of the many tables lined up in the center of the library. A glass of whiskey sat beside a pile of ratty old books as Dean paged through them. They had lost track of Abaddon, but that didn't stop him from looking up any and all information he could on the Knight of Hell. Truthfully, he was just looking for a way to feel productive.

If he was being fully honest with himself, he was getting a bit stir-crazy. The only time he had left the bunker for the past few weeks was either for more liquor or to get a drink away from his nagging brother. But Dean was never fully truthful with himself. Let's face it, we all know that. He never found the need to be honest with himself and, in reality, he didn't want to. It was easier to gulp down another fifth of scotch, turn up his favorite song loud enough to drive out the noise of the world, and pretend he hadn't lived the life he had.

But Sam knew. Sam always knew what was going on in his brother's head. Similar to the way we always know. But, honestly, when are the boys ever alright? He simply didn't say anything because he knew well that it would set Dean off. Instead, he sat behind his laptop and glanced over every couple of minutes. This is exactly how he managed to catch sight of his older brother rubbing his forearm gingerly. Sam felt his throat constrict at the motion.

The Mark of Cain had been bothering Dean for nearly a month now. It scared Sam more than anything. He was watching his brother slowly become colder and colder, his sense of morality becoming more black and white. It was terrifying. But Sam wasn't going to let Dean know that's what he thought.

"Hey?"

Dean spared him a glance through the corner of his eye, "Found something?"

"No."

His older brother gave an irate sigh before returning his attention back to the book.

"Are you alright?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he snapped gruffly. "I'm fine."

"No, Dean, you're not."

Dean's head snapped up, "Let it go, Sam."

"I'm not going to let it go," he retorted. "You haven't really left the Bunker in three weeks, you keep looking through those books as if you've missed something, you're practically crawling up the walls."

"I said drop it."

Making a split-second decision, Sam quickly pulled up a search of anything weird deaths or missing persons within a three-state radius. The first couple seemed relatively normal, rowdy teenagers running from home or muggings gone wrong. His eyebrows rose as he read the fifth link, an article from some small town in South Dakota. You remember our three hikers? Good. That's them.

"I think I've got something," he said, hoping to catch Dean's attention. "A hiker went out into the woods a couple days back and found some bodies. No visible sign of death, but their eyes were burnt in their sockets. Sound familiar?"

Dean looked up once more, "Probably a rogue angel. Cas can handle it. He's been looking into that stuff lately."

"He's busy at the moment, chasing down a half-crazed Cherub," Sam corrected.

"What?"

Sam met his brother's eyes, seeing the confusion.

"When'd you talk to Cas?"

"Two days ago," Sam admitted hesitantly. "I was wondering if he heard anything on Abaddon while he was traveling around."

It was a lie, of course. But it was better than telling him that Cas had been periodically checking in with Sam to see how Dean was doing. The angel knew very well what the effects of the Mark of Cain could be. And after all he had done to help the Winchesters, he wanted to make sure they weren't doing anything unreasonably dangerous. But Dean would have a conniption fit if he knew.

Dean blinked for a few seconds before shrugging, "We can't just drop this. The trail could go cold."

"The trail's already gone cold," Sam scoffed. "Besides, we might find something when we get out there. Wouldn't you rather get out and kill something than sit in here and read more books?"

Dean paused, apparently thinking over the choice, and Sam gave a silent sigh of relief when his brother closed the book.

"Fine," he muttered, downing the rest of his whiskey as he stood up. "Let's go gank this son of a bitch."

As he walked through the door leading to the dorms, his left hand ghosted over the crook of his elbow once more. The motion didn't go unnoticed by Sam and the youngest Winchester gave a sigh of relief as he closed his laptop. Maybe, he hoped, the hunt would do Dean some good.

* * *

After a nine hour night drive that only took six, Sam and Dean pulled into Custer, South Dakota. It didn't take long to find the cheapest motel, a little two-star place called the Bavarian Inn, and the two brothers quickly paid for a room for the week. Lugging his bags into the room, Sam watched as Dean pulled out two suits and dug through an old tin to find the forged FBI badges they had. Sam dropped his duffels on the separate twin mattress and pulled out a couple of angel blades as his brother muttered under his breath.

"Damned motels…Probably have bedbugs."

"You've never complained before."

"That was before we started sleeping on memory foam mattresses."

Sam cracked a smile, something he hadn't done in a long time. The expression felt odd on his face as if it didn't belong. He quickly let it drop as Dean grabbed his suit and walked into the bathroom. Closing the blinds, Sam began to change. It was almost a routine now. Dean would normally take the bathroom, which was usually a bit too small for him to actually maneuver comfortably in. But it was better than Sam having to try and change into a suit within the small, confined bathroom. The last time he had tried, he had accidentally knocked down the shower curtain.

By the time Dean got out of the bathroom, Sam was digging through their fake ID's for something they hadn't used in a while. It was always best to mix up their aliases from time to time. After all, there are only so many time you can go by "John Bonham" before someone gets suspicious. The younger Winchester spared his brother a glance as he spoke.

"Any preferences?"

"Richard Tandy," Dean answered automatically. "You can be Jeff Lynne."

"Maybe I should pick a different name," Sam suggested. "Don't you think someone's going to notice two names from the same band?"

"Are you kidding? No one listens to good music anymore."

Sam rolled his eyes, handing his brother the card, "One day someone's going to figure it out."

"You worry too much," Dean snapped, though there was a teasing edge to his tone.

It was a fairly short drive to the police station, and the silence of the drive was only broken by the steady stream of Led Zeppelin and Def Leppard. It was slowly becoming the habit during drives between the two. Dean had grown bitter and silent since their confrontation with Metatron and Gadreel and Sam was still sore from Dean lying to him and being used as an angel vessel.

However, when they pulled into the parking, something caught both their eyes. Among the rows of black and white police cars was a burgundy '62 Pontiac Catalina convertible. The top was down, revealing the black, red, and white leather seats. Dean gave an appreciative whistle as he stepped out of the Impala.

"Look at that, Sammy," he said with a grin. "Someone loves that car."

Sam couldn't help a smile at Dean's clear amazement. But he was right. That '62 Catalina had been rebuilt practically from the ground up. Each piece had been meticulously searched for over a six-month period. The seats alone had been reupholstered three times for various reasons.

"Come on," Sam said, nudging his brother. "You can find out who owns it while we're reading over the report."

Dean spared the Pontiac one last glance before they walked inside. The police department was a rather small building with a few desks here and there in the sparse cubicles littering the room. A man roughly in his forties with graying brown hair approached them, looking very much at the end of his patience despite it only being eight in the morning.

"Morning," Dean said automatically, pulling out the FBI card. "Special Agents Tandy and Lynne. We're here for-"

"That hiker homicide, I know," he very nearly snapped, causing Sam to raise his eyebrows. "You with the other one?"

"Other one?"

"You're not the first," he answered, gesturing behind him.

Both boys craned their necks to see just where the man was pointing. In the back of the building, separated from the rest of the rooms by a glass wall, there was a little office. Inside, two people were sitting on opposite sides of a desk, talking animatedly. Or rather, the middle-aged chief of police was. Across from his was a young woman with chestnut brown hair pulled up in a carefully twisted knot. As he nodded, she stood up and took the file off his desk. Both Winchesters watched as she walked out.

As a first impression, most people would think she was very ordinary. That's not to say, however, that she wasn't beautiful in her own right. But hers was a face you could easily pass on the street and not truly think twice about. Her features were fairly unassuming, marked only by the strong cheekbones and defined jawline, on her heart-shaped face. Her brown eyes were glassy, reminiscent to that of a porcelain doll. But her suit was well-tailored and gave off the sense that she would tolerate no ridiculousness. In the slim, black slacks, crisp white shirt, and practical dress shoes, she radiated with professionalism.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she caught sight of the Winchesters, her fingers twitching around the manila folder in her hand. She approached the group, nodding towards the officer.

"I'll take it from here, thank you," she said dismissively, waiting for him to leave before turning her attention to Sam and Dean. "I don't recall requesting back up."

"We're just following orders, Agent-?" Sam said, flashing his badge with his brother.

"Forrest," she answered, looking almost amused at the badges. "Lynne and Tandy. Like the Electric Light Orchestra."

Sam gave Dean a sharp look, who looked slightly taken aback by the assumption, "Yeah. The Director thought it was hilarious."

"I'm sure," she answered. "Well, you boys pretty much came out here for nothing. It's pretty open and shut."

"It is?" Dean asked, sounding amused.'

Agent Forrest glanced over their shoulders, "Is that Chevy yours?"

Dean smiled, "Yeah."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Dean shrugged and the woman walked briskly out the door. Sam gave his brother a questioning glance, but said nothing as they followed her. Agent Forrest was leaning over slightly to get a better look at the interior, causing Dean to smirk. His mood was quickly rising with each minute.

"She's flawless," Forrest commented.

"So is yours," Dean replied. "I'm guessing the Catalina's yours."

The agent nodded, "She was a gift, practically a skeleton when I got her. She's got a V-8 engine with two four-barrel carburetors, four-speed automatic transmission, and four-wheel drum brakes. Two-hundred sixty-seven horsepower at 3,600 rpm."

Dean leaned close enough to the agent to mutter in her ear, "Now how did a Fed talk her boss into letting her drive that? Or, more likely, how did a hunter save up enough for a classic like that?"

She gave him a sharp look, "I'm sorry?"

"I know a hunter when I see one," he answered with a satisfied smirk. "You must come from money, though. Nice suit, nice car…"

"Dean," Sam warned, watching Agent Forrest's expression grow cold.

"And I now a wanted felon when I see one, Winchester," she replied.

The smirk fell from Dean's face and Sam stiffened at the accusation. Both knew exactly what was happening. Dean had gotten cocky and made an assumption which went horribly wrong. Neither really wanted to cause any trouble with a Federal agent, but they couldn't let her lock them up. Sam watched as Dean's hand reached into his jacket pocket, where he knew his brother kept an angel blade tucked away. He groaned internally, knowing that things were about to go very wrong.


	3. Chapter 2: There's Something about Her

Now, dear readers, I know you're probably worried for our two protagonists, but you also know, deep down, they usually manage to escape harm's way with some miraculous luck. Honestly, I've never been certain where they got it from. Neither Atropos and her sisters nor I have ever shown quite _that_ much favoritism towards Sam and Dean. And yet they've always managed to swing things their way.

As it would happen, Agent Forrest was quite aware of who she was dealing with and what they were capable of. She also had a few cards up her sleeves, as well. She smiled inwardly as she saw the brothers tense. And though she was aware of some of their history, both fictional and real, and was actually hoping they might help. A quick job meant she could take a short break.

"You can relax," she said, eyeing Dean as his hand slipped into his jacket. "Normally, I'd lock you up and call in someone to cart you off. But an old friend of mine told me what you two actually do. He's dead now, and you two were the last to see him."

Sam visibly winced as both boys thought of the one obvious person she could have known: Victor Henriksen. It had been so long ago since they had thought of the agent and he was somewhat of a tabooed subject. That was, after all, the way with anyone who had died because of Sam and Dean.

"I'll let you help," she announced. "If you tell me how he died."

Dean gave her a long look, thinking carefully over their options, "Why should we trust you?"

"Why should _I _trust _you_?" she asked evenly. "I'm giving you an option. We can help each other, or I can have you arrested."

Before Dean could open his mouth to bark out a laugh, the two brothers noticed someone approaching. The stranger was only a few inches shorter than the Winchesters, but there was something definitely imposing about him. There was certainly something ageless about him, which both brothers immediately noticed. He, too, was wearing an expensive suit. Dark ginger hair was brushed back from his face, allowing full view of his strong features and blue eyes. The shape of his face was only highlighted by the prominent five o'clock shadow along his jaw. He gazed at both brothers for a minute, eyes raking over them as if staring into their souls, before turning to Agent Forrest.

"You called in for help?" he asked, strange accent tinting his words.

"No, they were sent here," she answered with a shake of her head. "Boys, this is my partner, Special Agent Zachary Engel."

Sam nodded respectfully, though something about Agent Engel troubled him, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Will they be joining this investigation?" he asked, addressing his partner while looking directly at Dean.

The elder Winchester offered a thin smile, "Yes, we will."

Forrest reached into her jacket and offered a business card, "Here. Give me a call if you need anything."

As Dean took the card, finally removing his hand from his jacket, Engel took his eyes off the hunter and glanced at the Impala.

"Your car?" he asked, not looking away.

"Yes, sir," Sam answered automatically.

There was an appreciative nod from the agent before he looked the younger Winchester dead in the eyes, "You could fit a body in that trunk."

Sam's eyes widened slightly at the words, taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone the man had. There was almost an accusatory edge to his tone. Dean, however, was able to recollect his composure before his brother.

"We're well aware of that, believe me."

It took all of his self-restraint for Sam to keep from smacking his brother. I think we can all agree that when faced with people in high places, Dean tends to take things a bit too far. It is the known fact of the world that he pushes his limits. But, instead of being surprised by the answer, the corners of Engel's lips pulled upward into a wolfish grin.

"I suppose we'll see you around," Agent Forrest announced, walking around to the driver side of her Catalina.

Sam smiled and gave a curt nod, watching as Engel opened the door and slipped easily onto the passenger seat. Both brothers watched as the car rolled out of the parking lot and down the road. Once out of sight, Sam turned to his brother with an unamused expression.

"_We're well aware of that_? Really, Dean?"

Dean gave a half-hearted shrug as he opened the driver-side door, "I was being honest."

"Yeah, I could see that."

It didn't take long for both brothers to fall into their usual driving silence as they headed back to their motel. However, while they were silent, Engel and Forrest's drive was the exact opposite.

Engel watched his partner out the corner of his eyes as her fingers tapped the beat of Depeche Mode's _Personal Jesus_ against the steering wheel. She spared him a glance before deciding to speak.

"Okay, spit it out."

"I have nothing to say," he replied.

"Zack, we've been working together for, what, nine years now?"

"Nine years, six months, two weeks, and five days," he corrected automatically.

"Same thing," she answered dismissively, causing him to smile. "I know when something's eating you."

"Dean Winchester."

She gave him a grin, "Cocky bastard, if the rumors are true. Which they seem to be. What about him?"

"He had an angel blade in his pocket."

"So do we," she pointed out.

"Kate, please be serious."

"I am being serious. Supposedly, he's been fighting off angels since 2009."

"It was the angel blade belonging to Zachariah."

A worried expression crossed Kate's face, "Friend of yours?"

Zack shook his head in disgust, "Pretentious, manipulative idiot. It's about time someone dispatched him."

"Then what has your wings in a knot?"

"These men, the Winchesters, they're dangerous. They've made deals with Death, killed innumerable angels, defeated both Michael and Lucifer-"

"I thought you hated Michael," she pointed out. "And never supported Lucifer."

"That doesn't dismiss the point," he snapped. "They most likely believe the same thing that we did when we noticed this case: that they're looking for an angel. Who do you think that will point them to?"

Kate paused, thinking over his words, "Zack, are you afraid of them?"

"I am worried," he amended. "For your safety."

"They don't even know what you are."

"Don't underestimate them. I've told you the rumors among the angels. They're bound to find out."

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," she replied, wanting to change the subject. "Did you find anything on the bodies?"

Zack gave a half-exasperated sigh before answering, "It wasn't an angel."

"Okay. Any idea what it is?"

He shook his head, "It's something ancient."

Kate nodded, though the prospects of what the creature could be troubled her, "Alright. We'll keep digging, then."

"Try not to do anything reckless."

"What? Where are you-?"

She glanced to her side to find the seat empty, the sound of wings beating lost in the wind.

"Damn it, Zack," she murmured, shaking her head angrily.

Let it be known, readers, that all angels have a tendency of flying off at the most inconvenient of times. No matter how close they are to a particular human.

But while our false FBI agents were having their little discussion, Sam and Dean had reached their motel. The older Winchester was already changing into a more comfortable shirt as his brother shrugged off his jacket. Thoughts of Agent Zack Engel still spun around in his head, though he couldn't say what it was about the man that bothered him.

"Hey, did that Engel guy seem strange to you?" he asked, glancing over at his brother.

"Do you mean in the way that he was staring at us like the Terminator or that he's got a twisted sense of humor?"

"No, something seemed…off about him."

Dean waved his hand dismissively, "I've said it before, I'll say it again: monsters are easy, humans are weird."

"Do you think we should trust them?"

Dean sighed as he collapsed onto one of the beds, grabbing the TV remote, "If they can make getting into places, getting answers from the people around here, and this entire hunt easier, I'm all for working together. The quicker we get this done, the sooner we can get back to looking for Abaddon."

Sam shook his head at his brother, eyes turning to the plaque on the nightstand proclaiming that _Casa Erotica_ was available on demand. The name caused him to internally wince. Before the trials and Metatron and the Mark of Cain, Dean would have practically announced it to the world. Now, it went unnoticed. All Dean could seem to care about these days was the hunt for Abaddon and taking down Metatron, if time allowed it. And Sam, of course.

Suddenly needing a minute away from his obsessive brother, Sam pulled his usual olive green jacket on and headed for the door. The sudden movement caught Dean's attention and he sat up slightly as he watched.

"Where're you going?"

"To find breakfast."

"Bring me back some pie!" Dean called as his brother shut the door.

* * *

Close to the edge of town, just as the sun was going down, a man walked along the torn-up sidewalks at a leisurely pace. A dark leather jacket and a black _Don't Tread on Me_ shirt clung comfortably to his chest. Faded and torn jeans hung low on his hips, the legs almost entirely obscuring the square-toed cowboy boots he wore. Mirrored aviators sat precariously on his hawk-like nose and his thin lips were stretched into a jaunty smile. In short, this man simply radiated with trouble.

It wasn't often that he came into town. In fact, most of Custer's population had only seen him a handful of times. But when he was seen, he was sauntering through the streets as if he owned the place.

The few pedestrians ambling around the place crossed the road as he approached, a deep, primeval instinct telling them to stay away from the stranger. His grin only widened as he watched them. Normally, he would revel in their fear, but he was looking for a specific person. Much to the surprise of his onlookers, he stopped before an old second-hand bookstore and glanced in. A gaze thrown over his shoulder caused them to go about their business once more and he traipsed through the door.

The little place was filled to the brim in bookshelves. They lined the walls and were placed in slightly crooked rows throughout the center floor. But they still could not keep all of the books within the shop. Not only were there ratty and curling books all along the shelves, but they were also in high, crooked piles on the floor. Behind a glass display case that doubled as a front desk, a woman with blonde hair as frizzy and voluminous as a lion's man stood. She had instantly straightened up as he walked in, not caring what anyone looked like so long as he or she was interested in purchasing one of her many novels.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" she asked eagerly.

He smirked as he turned to face her, flashing two straight rows of very white teeth, "Yes, as a matter of fact, you can."

Her eyes lit up with the answer, "Is there a particular book you're looking for?"

"Not exactly, ma'am," he replied as he leaned against the display case. "I'm just looking for something new."

"Well, we have just about every genre here. Is there anything you're interested in?"

"Murder," he said, lingering over the last syllable.

If the woman behind the counter had been unaware of the circumstances before, something in the man's tone struck her as odd. She faltered for an instant before stuttering out a response.

"Oh, well, we have an entire corner of mystery books in the back left corner."

"Any in first-person?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she answered quietly, taking a step back as he leaned forward.

"Have you ever read a murder-mystery, Miss?"

"No," she said. "I prefer fantasy."

"Maybe you should branch out," he suggested. "Though some people say they're a bit monotonous. I suppose, in a way, they are. Someone is killed, an investigator looks into it, he or his love interest is threatened, and the murderer is caught."

"Oh?"

The man hummed in answer, "But there's something that is always unique to each one. Do you know what it is?"

The young woman shook her head, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the man's tone.

"The victim's reaction," he answered, pulling down his shades.

The scream could be heard out in the street, attracting several people meandering about at the time. But the only thing to be found inside the bookstore was one corpse with a mess of blonde hair and burnt eyes sockets.


End file.
